by Neal Goldy
You could say she liked to be different.
Winnie mulled the thought of what her bedroom should appear to be. Settling on the ocean, everything turned vibrant; always, always, always when Winnie knew what she wanted, everything fell into place like destiny. Bright, deep blues squiggled the walls in an imitation of water waves riding the surface, building up into waves. Fish swam in the blue scene, starfish and anemone and a marine hatchetfish (she always warned her friends about the hatchetfish before entering her room). Occasionally, when friends came over, they described her bedroom walls like a painting – a mural, if you like the term. She supposed so and agreed with most of them. In a subliminal sense, Winnie had a lighthouse on the farthest corner of the bedroom, right next to where the walls met and made the corner. When measured, the red-and-white lighthouse was no longer than an index finger. Winnie needed it small so that, when she slept, it would always be calling; she always reaching for something.
But all of this didn’t occur to her when she entered. Only her mother still lay in her mind. Both sat on Winnie’s bed, the sheets the color of sand and beaches. Beaches and oceans were two things that always stuck in her mind, that made her take off from the city view she always had beyond her window.
“Winnie,” Mother said. Uh-oh. Winnie never liked it when Mother said her name like that, so concerned and so worried. It was the voice of thin ice that broke the heart instead of slowly melting it. She said it again, “Winnie.”
But Winnie didn’t speak. Watching with her large eyes, she kept quiet.
“Your dad and I want to let you know that everything is all right. There’s nothing to be afraid of. That man –”
“What about him?” Winnie had nothing against the police officer. “He did nothing wrong.”
“I know he didn’t. I just don’t want you to be scared, that’s all.”
Winnie stared, disbelieving what her mother was saying. “I’m not scared of that man,” she said. “How come you think so?”
“Then what’s on your mind?” her mother insisted. Truly, the words of the question pressed onto Winnie like deep water. “Is it Paul?”
Everything broke. Winnie held onto Mother, trying to readjust herself. She didn’t wail, but she felt the tears dropping from her eyes. The hope of the lost was slipping away, away from her reach . . .
“Winnie.” Again with that voice!
“Mother,” she said as gentle as she could. “Don’t say that. Please.”
“Say what? Is it your name? Is that what’s wrong with you?”
She shook her head. Her name was beautiful, it was the name of her favorite doll. Why should that be a problem to her?
But she said: “Where did Paul go?”
Her mother’s eyes were unmoving, for some reason refusing to blink. Stiff eyes, she would call them, probably because of the way her mother desired to appear braver than what she could muster. Two shaky breaths later and Mother began to talk again. “Paul . . . dear, we don’t know, no matter how hard we try,” she explained. “They’ve been looking for five years.”
“Then they should try harder,” Winnie argued.
“It’s not that easy.”
“I don’t think so. I could help them.”
Mother shook her head. “You’re too young to go looking in places like that.”
“What, did Paul do something wrong that you can’t tell me about?”
“You know I told you everything about him, Winnie.” Mother’s eyes weren’t looking at Winnie when she said that.
“Mother?” asked Winnie.
Her mother turned.
“What did Paul look like? I don’t remember.”
A partial truth, actually, if you took all the facts and pieced them together in the way someone puts together a jigsaw puzzle. Part of it she said in pure honesty, because Paul’s face had become a ghost that continued even now to fade out. In fact, Paul was the lighthouse nearing the corner of her bedroom, going farther until she couldn’t see it even when squinting. Her arms were too tiny to reach it, but she never gave up, even when she should have done so long ago. But on the other hand, Winnie had asked the very same question a few weeks ago to both her mother and father, so it made no difference now to ask again. Still . . . Winnie’s mother knew her brother Paul better than she did, despite his favoring her more than other family member (he never said this but you didn’t have to be a detective to figure it out).
“He was tall,” her mother said, then paused. “Do you really not remember what Paul looked like?”
“No, I don’t.”
“You rarely saw Paul with a beard or mustache. He preferred himself clean shaven. Even in the winter, when times were really cold, you only saw hair when you got really close. They were really tiny hairs. Of course, he loved to shake hands and greet people. He never wore glasses. In all, he was very much a younger version of your father, but at the same time . . . there was this smile that belonged to neither of us. His eye color was blue, unlike your father or me. Always insisting on going outside, that was Paul. Never did he gain weight.”
“And why do people keep taking pictures of us?” Obviously that was the big question.
Her mother was abrupt.
“Mother, you stopped speaking.”
“Oh, did I?” She was trying to hide it. “I’m sorry, dear, I was just thinking. See, we are a private family, one who takes publicity seriously. Of course, all of you know this.”
Winnie did.
“But those people . . . I don’t know why they do it. None of it makes any rational sense except for the purpose of making money. If that was their pure motive – and I’m certain that might be it – then you know as well as I that the world is purified in the sickness of greed—it’s like being addicted to honey. They want money, we have money, and there’s a tragic story for their papers, which is why they do it. Worst thing about it is that people, regular people, buy these magazines and newspapers, digging up all the tender details. And why should they? What, they don’t realize we, like them, are regular people too? The one difference I can think of between people and us is that, for once, we actually took our time in doing what we wanted, actually perspired doing what we wanted. And they . . . most of them… slack off into a hamster wheel-like routine, never seeking ends to making their lives happier. It also appears to me that they can criticize us all they want, but never can they look in the mirror in the early morning and see themselves. See who they really are. You know what I mean? The way they treat this family and many others is like animals in a zoo. They can laugh and make fun of us never thinking they’ll be caught.”
“Like an aquarium,” Winnie said.
“Yeah,” her mother said. “It’s kind of like that, actually.” A dream . . . it must have been a dream.
*****
D. lay back in the reclining chair. In one hand he had the remote, and with that, complete control of all its features. Each function the old detective favored like the juicy ingredients of gourmet food. He pressed none of them though. The psychiatrist under the name of Richard Fiend took notes and kept the old detective tucked under his thumb. For a man almost as old as he was, Fiend had good eyes that liked to know what you were doing, when you were doing it, and why you were doing it. And he promised his patients (well, at least to D.) that he never liked stalking people.
“Relax, please.” He never addressed him with his real name. Business was business, and he didn’t want the sentiment of people’s personal lives mixed in with it. All those savory details go in the conversation only when he treated them, and only then. He tore open a fresh page from his notebook that was bound in the finest leather; he claimed he bought it in an underground bookshop in the southern parts of Hungary. D. had no way of figuring out if he spoke the truth. “Tell me, now, what troubles you?”
“That girl,” D. said. “She was there . . .”
Fiend wasn’t getting it. “Who was? I do not understand.”
“The young nurse, she came in to ch
eck on me and her behavior was quite unusual.”
“Unusual in what way?” inquired the psychiatrist.
“Well, she seemed fond of me,” D. said. “She works in a small building housing ‘GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS.’ Have you heard of it?”
The psychiatrist stroked his chin, avoiding the question. “She was fond as in what, like what a lover?”
The old detective swallowed. “Yeah,” he croaked. “Sort of like that.”
“Where do you suppose she is now?”
“I don’t know. That’s what happened. We slept together –”
Fiend raised his eyebrows. “You did?”
“I know it sounds terrible, but what choice did I have? It was like she wanted to do it with me.” Then the old detective began wailing, his voice pleading. “Please, don’t tell anyone, but I had no choice.” Quiet sobbing came after. “And then, in the morning, something happened. I woke up from some kind of bad dream.”
“A bad dream – what are you trying say?”
“The next day, I woke up and she was gone. On that same day, the doctor I was assigned to – he was accompanied by nurses – had told me that I was better and ready to go back to where I had to go. He never specified where, but I think we both knew what it was. Odd thing is it that the young nurse from before told me crucial information that no one else would say? Please tell me if I was dreaming or not, for I fear I’ve gone mad!”
“Mad, you say? Come on, that sounds ridiculous, D.”
D. stood back up, something patients should never do until they are done with their treatment. “Is it? Does it sound that ridiculous from the pay I’ve given you?”
The old detective had indeed paid well. “Come to think of it,” Fiend said, rubbing his fingers together, “it sounds pretty serious.”
“Is it serious enough for you to cure it?”
“Well, let me see . . . are you busy tonight?”
“Yes. I’m on a case looking for who took the McDermott son. Have you heard about it, because it seems like everyone else has.”
Fiend cracked open a smile. “You must be joking, D.!” he exclaimed. “Of course I know about it! Do you know how many issues and editions I own of the event? There’s dozens, of course!”
“I see you’re a fan.”
“Not just a fan!” said Fiend. “It’s way more than that, to be sure. Can you imagine such tragedy in a family so wealthy? And they’ve never announced their wealth to anyone! Selfish people who deserve all the sins they could get.”
“So you’re saying they should have told everyone about their money?”
“Who wouldn’t? If I were them, I would have told everyone, shove it to their faces and let them see that I’ve really done something that the lazy no-good idiots could never do in a thousand lives!”
“It seems like I’m learning more about you than you are of me.”
Gotcha, thought D. The psychiatrist should keep his words more private next time, but the detective said none of it. Let the man think for himself for once. “So, shall we continue on to my dilemma?”
“Of course, of course, you are right. I’m sure we can get something for you.” He ruffled through some papers that, when inspected, had no more insightful meaning or coherence in regard to the old detective’s dilemma than using a magnifying glass to find the problem. “How about this: make a rendezvous with one of the family members in… what was the name?”
“The McDermotts,” answered D.
“Yes, use one of them – preferably one of the males – and get them to talk. At the same time, go the place ‘GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS,’ and find out if the young nurse who was locked in with you really exists. Not only will it answer your problems, you will also destroy any sexual desires you have!”
“By doing what, making things worse?”
“No, it’s nothing like that! Just – just do what I say, all right? I assure you it will help.”
D. glared at him. “Are you sure you’re a psychiatrist?”
“If I wasn’t, then why do I have a certificate?”
“Just because they give you a piece of paper and a sticker doesn’t mean you know what you’re doing.”
“True,” Fiend said, watching the detective leave. Wait a minute . . . what was that supposed to mean?
*****
Surprised that the place blinked an OPEN sign in a cheap purple, old detective D. went inside. He made sure to bring a hat so no one would figure out his identity. The main point was not the service provided in the building, it was the meeting. D. wanted to get in and get out without going noticed. Before he came here, he contacted one of the McDermott children, the brother of the missing one, Higgins. So many surprises occurred during the stay at “GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS,” most of which D. didn’t want to remember.
When you entered, nothing spoke of things extraordinary. You would go into a dingy room – or should we say cube – with too much light to blind you. On the right sat a small desk and a perky woman you probably want to avoid. D. went over to this lady. She had frizzy orange hair as if burned from an incident and she wore rectangular glasses. “Hi! My name is Perky!”
“No kidding,” said D.
“What, is there something wrong?” said Perky. “I hope I wasn’t being too rude.”
D. held up a hand to stop her. “No, there’s nothing wrong,” he said. “Please don’t take it the wrong way.”
“But I –”
“Don’t take it the wrong way. I’m looking for a man named Higgins McDermott. Is he here?”
“Yes, he is. Apparently he isn’t very happy with the accommodations you provided him with.”
Did he have a choice? “Where can I find him?”
“He can be found on the second floor,” said Perky. “It’s the one that has the ‘From Russia with Love’ style. Are you looking to stay here tonight?”
“Uh, no, I’m not really interested at the moment.”
“That’s okay! Just call me when you do. We have a wide variety of women here.”
D. lowered the brim of his hat. “That doesn’t include you, does it?”
Perky gushed. “Oh, mister, please, I couldn’t . . .” But then, relenting: “But with the right price, I’m on the last floor. Wanna meet me there?”
“No thanks. I’ll be on my way.” D. began to leave to go to the dark hallway on the left. An old sign on the top held the words ENTER HERE. He went through.
“Are you sure you won’t stop by?” hollered Perky.
D. turned. “You know what, lady? I’ll stop by after I’m done.”
“Okay!” Her dewed eyes followed him when he left. Crazy woman, he thought before getting into the elevator box. He soon found out the elevator didn’t go up: the front desk was on the top floor. The only way to go was down.
D. clicked the button with 2 on it and stood patiently as the elevator took its course. When the door opened he went out. If the place had been any different he would have taken second guesses and warnings, sometimes looking back at the floor button number just to make sure. Now he pushed it all away like a newly sober man.
Perky had lied. Or maybe she didn’t. Long hallway – not even a floor – with bare metal walls tracked down as far as D. could see. Like the walls was the material of the doors lined up in long rows: pure metal. None of them had doorknobs. How was this From Russia with Love? A bare, dirty floor that went on and on didn’t serve as a Russian theme. He bent down, looked close enough. Cockroaches scuttling the floor in a never-ending search for food, life, and prosperity – but that’s giving insects too much credit.
A long line of women came through the other end of the hallway. All of them wore tight-fitting dresses and they were carrying plastic objects. He did not want to know what they were for. D. lowered the brim of his hat until it covered his face. He might have gone to sleep standing up like that. Feeling his way through, he kept his eyes on where Higgins might be. Any involvement with other women was not to occur, except with the young nurse whose name she did
not reveal. Thinking this, it was not be a surprise when he knocked over one woman.
“Oh! Sorry,” she said.
D. said nothing. Did the voice sound familiar? The woman had left by the time he turned back to check.
D. pushed one door. It didn’t open. Same thing happened when he pulled it from the small gaps. Sometimes his fingers were not small enough to get a grasp. At the end of the hallway, though, D. saw a particular door opened. Tilting his head, he could see falling snow coming from above. Who knew from where the source came. Linen furs hung against the wall in racks. With a plush bed on the right, D. could see what the room’s purpose served.
A sole man sat on the lone bench in the room, his body shrunken in an uncomfortable manner. He supposed it was Higgins. He looked like he was going to hurl over; his back was bent that much. Going over, D. shook hands with the frightened man.
“Hello. Are you Higgins?”
The man looked up. “Yes, I am,” he said. “You’re the detective?”
D. nodded. “I know this doesn’t sound like the most apt place to meet, but I needed to meet someone here.”
“Like who?” wondered Higgins.
“One of these women met me before while I was in a hospital bed. Next day she never existed. I need to make sure whether she was a dream or not.”